He Will Be Back
by Chervil
Summary: 'Soft, velvety fingers grasp her hand, and he bends over to press a brief, lingering kiss to her white knuckles. 'Thank you,' he says, and the smile he gives her is achingly, dazzlingly blinding.' Written for the Spookathon 2006. [TonksxNorrington]


**Title: **He Will Be Back  
**Author: **Chervil  
**Summary: **Written for the Spookathon 2006. TonksxNorrington.  
**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

It is night the first time James Norrington comes. It is always night when they come, huddled into themselves and hunched over with the weight of their troubles. Tonks does not mind, though; bitter as it may seem, she likes it when they come for her. It makes her feel wanted--needed--and helps her forget a time when she bared her soul to another and found it rejected. But that didn't matter. None of it mattered, because they always came to her and she was needed, and that was all that was important. Wasn't it? 

This one is different from the others, she decides as she watches him from the shadows. There is no telltale stoop to his back, no gleam of desolation in his eyes, none of those skittish movements that speak of agitation. Instead, he stands straight, sharp eyes sweeping through every crevice and corner in search of her. Even the tattered remnants of his uniform does not take away from the masculine aura of rigid discipline that he possesses, and Tonks finds herself instinctively drawing her cloak closer about her.

"Is anyone there?" His voice is crackled, brittle. It betrays his calm facade.

Tonks hasn't done this for years for nothing. A twitch of her cloak sends a disjointed finger skidding across the dusty dirt floor towards him. They like it when she adds theatrical effects such as that; it enhances the surrealism of the situation, and reminds them that they were dealing with the "supernatural;" because what you can't control isn't your fault. Most of them jump in surprise upon seeing the wispy skeletons she'd placed in strategic locations around the room. This one merely blinks and fixes his gaze upon the single finger.

"I know you're there," he says, and his voice had gained a tiny sliver of confidence. "It's rumored you can... do things. Help people." He gulps. "I need your help, please."

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear," Tonks murmurs, still shrouded by darkness.

She hears him gulp again, and can only imagine him, licking chapped lips nervously before saying, "I believe you can heal me."

"Very well then," she acquiesces, and steps forward from the shadows.

Instantly, his eyes fix on her. She knows he cannot see her face, shielded by her cloak as it is, and stays still as he scrutinizes her. Several terse moments pass by, and she feels her lips twitching into a smile as she realizes that he would not be the one to avert his gaze.

"Look into my eyes," she tells him, and is not surprised when he boldly raises his gaze to where he thinks her eyes are.

Tonks effortlessly reaches out with tendrils of magic, employing the Legilimency few knew she'd mastered, and taps gently. She feels him flinch. Not many Muggles were sensitive enough to feel the soft manipulation, but she had a feeling he would. He was unusual, to say the least. She taps again, as an extra warning, before delving completely into the recesses of his mind.

Memories bubble to the surface upon her beckoning. They come in droves, connected and yet each a separate entity in its own right. They reek of horror, of fear, of anguish, and disappointment, and a fierce joy that seems to make all of the hardships worthwhile. It would be merely child's play for her to rifle through his recollections, and she does so with ease.

The first thing she sees is a young boy, unruly chestnut hair framing his face in an angelic manner, clinging to the hem of a woman's long gown. His sea green eyes are wide with unadulterated curiosity and he seems to not notice the way the woman--presumably his mother--is striving valiantly to hold back her tears after she closes the door on the messenger. She fails, however, and the little boy is left staring in confusion as she clutches him to her body, rocking back and forth with the force of her sobs.

Then the memory retreats back into his mind, and Tonks silently calls forth another one. They come in chronological order, and she finds herself looking at the interior of a dimly lit parlor. The woman that resides in the chaise lounge in the center is richly dressed, neck and ears dappled with jewelry, hair coifed to perfection. She was, however, by no means happy. There is a thin novel clasped in her shapely hands, but her gaze is directed at the window. There is a picturesque lake that spans a large portion of her view, but Tonks can tell she isn't looking at that, either. She suddenly sighs, and a door closes over Tonks' vision.

The darkness lightens to reveal the outdoors this time. Seated on the front steps of an opulent manor is the young boy from a previous memory. Contentment is etched in every line of his face, and he sucks avidly on the lollipop in his hands. It seems that he is utterly oblivious of the pork-bellied man, reclining in the shadowed doorway of the manor, regarding him with a gaze of lecherous intent. The man's eyes are fixated on the boy's candy-stained lips. It isn't until the man shifts his weight from one side to the other that the boy looks up. He opens his mouth to speak, managing a soft, "F-f-fah," before it shuts of its own volition. The man smiles insidiously at his discomfort. "James," he says, "how many times must I tell you to call me Father?"

That memory, too, soon fades to darkness. When it lightens, she is assaulted by a cacophony of sounds. The first thing she identifies is the steady, rhythmic cadence of flesh hitting flesh. Each meaty smack is accompanied by a pitiful mewl of pair. There is also the sounds of harsh grunts, following each slap, that speak of exertion. Her eyes focus on the origin. The man from the memory before is seated on a chair, with James stretched over his lap, arse bared and fiendishly red. He does not seem to notice--his hand continues its repeated assault on the boy's buttocks, merciless and utterly disregarding the cries that had long since softened to whimpers.

Engrossed as she is in the myriad of memories, Tonks doesn't notice the man's--James, presumably--continued struggles against her invasion. Until now, that is. Sweat cascades down his temples as he gathers one last burst of strength and pushes her savagely out of his mind.

He hisses a continuous string of profanity, try as he might to suppress it.

She carefully conceals her astonishment. He was not supposed to be able to do that, just as Muggles aren't supposed to be aware of an accomplished Legilimens delving into their minds. There is no time for surprise, though--James was here for a purpose. It is the work of only a moment to push back the hood of her cloak. James' eyes widen, and with due cause. Her face is now exactly that of his stepfather, a change she had activated in the midst of the memories. The cloak serves to shield her undoubtedly feminine clothes and figure.

James seems to have gathered his composure, and offers her a sneer in response. "I don't believe you."

Her brows arch in pleasant surprise. Very well, if he wanted to be obstinate, then she would meet him strike for strike. A wave of the wand hidden in her pocket transfigures her jeans and t-shirt into the attire James' stepfather would wear. She calls on her Metamorphmagus skills, and thus her figure changes into that of the fattening man. Once she is successfully changed, she drops the cloak.

This time, James staggers backwards in sheer shock. His eyes are wide, his breathing labored. Tonks feels a glimmer of satisfaction at his reaction.

"James," she purrs, pressing his discomfort to her advantage. "Is that how you greet your father?" She takes a step forward, reaching out the man's chubby, ungraceful hand towards James. "I've been on your mind lately, haven't I?" The memories at the foremost of his mind testify to that fact. "Have you been _good_, James?"

Tonks simply does not see it coming. One moment James is limp and leaning against the wall, using it for the support he so desperately needs, and the other he makes his attack. Her head snaps back with the force of his blow, and she crumples. Her jaw throbs unpleasantly. She can tell that there will be a bruise, come morning. The shock is too much, and so she instinctively reverts back to her original form--the slender young woman with the pale, heart-shaped face.

James seemed to have snapped out of his previous mind set. Instantly he is at her side, gathering her from the floor and searching her face for any signs of pain. If he is surprised that the one aggravating him so is a young girl barely out of her teens, he does not show it.

"Are you okay, miss?" he asks, and his voice is calm, composed. There is no trace of the shuddering, frantic man of mere minutes before.

Tonks drags herself off the floor, brushing off the hands that try to assist her. She knows that now the initial surprise has passed, the distress will come--distress for hitting a woman, guilt for letting his emotions get the best of him. He does not know how she feels inside, having failed utterly in purging his mind of its burdens.

"Leave," she says, cradling her swollen jaw in one hand.

He looks hesitant.

She closes her eyes, counts to ten. There is the sound of shuffling footsteps, and after a few moments, her discarded cloak is draped around her shoulders. She feels touched despite herself, despite the alarm bells ringing in her head. So she merely clenches her eyes shut, breathing deeply in and out. When she opens them, he is gone.

Tonks smiles bitterly. He will be back.

* * *

Her conscience eats away at her. Her attempts aren't always so awkward, so stilted. It's James that causes her to lose her composure, and she loathes herself for it. Her sessions always end successfully, with the person going home, relieved of their burdens, even if through unorthodox methods. She doubts that James' stepfather is completely eradicated from his mind. 

A fortnight passes before James comes back. She can immediately tell that something is wrong, and so stays in the shadows as he noisily slams the door shut. Even from this distance, her sensitive nose picks up the pungent aroma of liquor. She does not blame him for resorting to alcohol, and yet her heart still twinges in sympathy. She has seen stronger men do worse.

"I know you're there," James demands, tone harsh.

She has half a mind to leave him there for the rest of the night. It is only a matter of time before he collapses out of exhaustion, she deducts.

"Hello?" he calls. His voice echoes hauntingly through the ramshackle hut.

Tonks narrows her eyes and presses closer to the wall at her back.

"Hello?" he repeats.

Alcohol has driven away his inhibitions. He falls to his knees in the middle of the hut, grabbing his bedraggled wig and tossing it into the corner. Tonks takes pity on him, and so reaches out with her magic. At the first touch of her mind, a gratefulness so vibrant erupts inside him that it takes her breath away. This is what she lives for, she realizes--that one enthralling moment in which she is needed so badly, without constraints.

Smothering dark eyes look back at her. Long chestnut hair frames a small, pretty face, and the woman's underbite only emphasizes her ethereal beauty. Her petite eyebrows are raised in amusement, and there is a laughing, joyous lilt to her lush lips. A dive deeper into the recesses of James' mind reveals that this is Elizabeth Swann.

Tonks draws slowly out of his mind, savoring his silent acquiescence. He blinks and fixes his gaze on her. His eyes are strangely clear now.

"What now?" he whispers.

It seems so utterly wrong that James Norrington should whisper.

Tonks then does something she hasn't done before--she drops her cloak, long before she's morphed into the person she intends to. As James watches the face he's only seen once before, she fingers a strand of her own shockingly pink hair. He observes silently as she runs her fingers down the length of her hair. As she does, it grows with each caress. She doesn't stop until the curly tresses reach well below her bosom.

James closes his eyes and gulps. Tonks waits for him to open them again, and passes the palm of her hand over her newly lengthened hair. As each section is revealed, it steadily turns a deep chestnut shade. She feels her jaw stretch, forming that underbite so characteristic of Elizabeth Swann. When he closes his eyes again, she quickly abandons her drab attire in favor of a provocative, low-cut gown that reaches to the top of her knees, the opposite of what she instinctively knew the young Miss Swann would don. It shimmers and flutters about her thin, milky thighs as she walks towards James.

For all intents and purposes, she is now Elizabeth Swann.

His breathing is labored now, but instead of feeling satisfaction, she feels an immense sense of disappointment. It is Elizabeth Swann he wants, not the lonely Nymphadora Tonks, and no matter how much she tells herself that it does not matter either way, she can't seem to convince her treacherous mind.

She reaches him in a few scant steps, and after a moment of indecision, places a hand on the vulnerable curve of his neck, exposed by the collar he'd thrown open in his intoxication. It is sweaty.

Before she can do anything more, he licks his lips and rasps, "Stop."

Tonks freezes.

James pulls himself away from her, and she has to admire his discipline. A weaker man would not be able to deny what is so enticingly offered to him.

"No," he murmurs, "this is not right. One night with Miss Swann will not heal anything. It was not her body I lusted for, but her spirit that I loved."

It takes him a minute to gather his composure. He leaves after he does, considerably quieter than his entrance.

She hopes he will be back.

* * *

It is All Hallow's Eve when he comes for the third time. She does not expect anything different--he is the type of man who does everything consciously, with an intent and goal in mind. All Hallow's Eve is tinged with suspense and an awareness of the supernatural that is particularly enhanced.

She takes one looking at him, and can tell that he has made up his mind.

Tonks prods tentatively at his mind, a stark contrast to the intrusive invasion of previous sessions. He opens his mind to her then, and the memories and thoughts and emotions all overflow. It seems that all he can think of now is the golden-toothed man of his recollections, and while Tonks does not know the reason for his intense fascination, she does notice the quickening pulse whenever he is around, and the heady rush of adrenaline that engulfs James whole when he is on the hunt. she is no one to deny him that, and so she withdraws out of his mind.

James looks at her. He simply looks, the crease between his brows furrowing in determination. "May I see your face?" he finally asks.

She is incapable of speech now, and merely pushes back her hood.

His eyes rove impassively over her face, and Tonks feels her pulse steadily accelerate, but manages to keep still. She wonders what he sees when he looks at her. Does he see the pale young woman with the bitter curl to her lip? Or does he see the desolate emptiness that is throbbing inside her? Does he know that she is being the ultimate hypocrite, by helping others when she so desperately needs help herself?

After several long, terse moments, he reaches out. She flinches, and there is a sadness growing in his eyes. Soft, velvety fingers grasp her hand, and he bends over to press a brief, lingering kiss to her white knuckles.

"Thank you," he says, and the smile he gives her is achingly, dazzlingly blinding.

She prays fruitlessly that he will be back.

_fin._


End file.
